I floundered around before posting my last blog. Was I crazy or cringy to try to turn a book review into a post about my miscarriage? I had tried to sit down and write more about what had happened, but for the first time, words didn’t feel like enough. As a writer, it probably doesn’t bode well for me that I’ve been feeling like I can’t express what I’m feeling with words.
The weeks following our second miscarriage have been devastatingly beyond words. It’s been so… physical.
The day after we confirmed I had miscarried, I decided to work. I was working from home. So what were another few Zoom meetings? I was fine. I was definitely okay. Definitely able to work. I started the first call, and everyone exchanged pleasantries. Someone noticed I had been in and out of reach work-wise the last couple of days and asked if everything was okay.
“I had a miscarriage yesterday,” I blurted out. I hadn’t thought about whether I would share or not at work. I had no plan and was totally unprepared. But sharing was something physical. It was something in my throat that I couldn't stop, pushing its way out. And despite every face on camera considerably stunned with large eyes and no verbal response, I was the most surprised. I realized at that moment, I had not said it out loud until then. That was the first time I had spoken those words for this loss. And hearing the news, even from myself, took the air out of my body.
Suddenly in unison, the Zoom screens lit up and “I’m so sorry” and “Are you okay?” echoed from my coworkers.
“I’m not okay.” I said. It wasn’t the first time I had said it outloud. And my eyes blurred, and my body shook. And although I could have probably managed to turn off my camera, I didn’t. I cried and sobbed in front of other adults who probably have their own sobs they’re trying to keep down their own throats.
After making several attempts to try to bring the meeting back to its purpose by wiping my eyes and saying “Anyway…” awkwardly…I found I couldn’t stop crying. Try as I might. Joke as I try. I couldn’t stop the tears. I couldn’t stop choking on the fact that I had lost my baby. And the more frustrated I got at not being able to control my emotions in a physical manner, the more I lost all control altogether.
That’s when I finally relented. I quickly excused myself from the call. I hit End Meeting. I curled up into a little ball and I stopped trying to stop crying. I let myself wail for a good half hour. Finally, after my eyelids had swollen and my sobs had whittled down to delicate hiccup-like levels, I returned to my computer. I canceled the rest of my meetings for the day and the following day—some meetings felt quite important. But all of them felt impossible.
If you recall in one of my earlier posts, I had convinced myself that I would take my family to London. We’d fly a long, hard distance in a plane and it would be difficult, but we would do it. When we found out I was pregnant, I decided I didn’t want to fly out to London while pregnant—especially since the first trimester had been unkind to me last time. The last thing I needed on a 10-hour flight beyond a wiggly toddler was the need to pee every 15 minutes. But my husband and I still wanted to travel. We also wanted to do something special for our son before he would transition from being the only character to being one of two main characters in our story.
We decided to go see Cannon Beach since it got away from us the last time we were in the Pacific Northwest. We decided to accept Dia’s daily invitations to bring our son to Disneyland and stay with her. We decided to add a third week to the trip near the ocean with David’s parents—which was very out of character for us. Three weeks away from home? We barely made it out for dinner when we were home. But we were having another baby. When we booked the trip, I hummed happy melodies in the shower, David had a spring in his limp/step, and we felt three weeks was more than manageable. Looking back, of course, I realize how painfully optimistic we were.
And here we are.
Starting the third week of our trip at an Airbnb, which should be fun. But the thin white towels, the welcome book that lists out things to do, and the flat, lumpy pillows are just reminders that we are far from home. It is hard to be broken-hearted. But it is harder to be broken-hearted when you’re away from home. I’m homesick for stupid things. For things I hate. Like the fire sirens that always pass our house late at night, or the way the water softener startles me awake when it charges up, or the crumbling concrete on one of the 6 steps leading to our front door. It’s irrational to long for these things…but I do.
The waves are so fucking loud. I’m typing this on a wooden table outside, sitting in a strange attempt at paradise. This was supposed to be our sunny beach vacation, and it’s rained every day since we’ve been here. As soon as the sun comes out, and I respond by removing a layer or two to feel the warmth, the clouds come out to bring back the chill. I was promised sandy beaches from the photos of this Airbnb, and yet all I see are 10-foot waves crashing against rocks the size of my body when I curl up to cry. And I’m just… I’m exhausted just trying to think of how to describe how this trip has been.
The trip that was supposed to be welcoming our new baby became the trip we didn’t want to go on…But did anyway because… Well, really because we had paid for it already. How strange it is to be on a trip, grieving a lost baby, and also feeling guilty every other minute for not being able to enjoy the trip for what it is? Why can’t I use it as an escape? Why can’t I use it to find hope or inspiration? I’m wasting the sound of the ocean because I’m haunted by an event I can’t change. And I’m anxious for the future, filled with more events I can’t predict or control.
When we were at Cannon Beach and the chill whipped my cheeks and the water numbed my feet, I thought, I’m not carrying my baby anymore. Today, I am one, and I’m alone on the sand. At Disneyland when we watched siblings ooh and awe as the parade passed, I thought There is no sibling on the way for Candland. Now as the waves crash down in front of me, I try to tell myself this vacation was needed. This trip was healing. I try to reassure myself that by the time our plane’s wheels land back in Utah, David will squeeze my hand and smile—and I’ll smile back because we’ve had some kind of revelation. Because we know it’s going to be okay.
Yes, we can always try for another one. Yes, it brought David and I closer. Yes, we’re lucky because we have had a successful pregnancy.
But I still cry for the one I lost.
Whenever something bad happens, I am always perplexed by the way everything continues on. The sun rises, the sun falls. The reminder to schedule my teeth cleaning chimes on my phone. Work meetings stack up on the calendar when I’m back in the office. Music plays on the radio. I take my shower. David counts Candland’s fingers to calm him in the car. The waves… they roll in one after another, flattening into a foamy layer on the sand, and then retreat. And they come back with a crash, crawling their way to the shore again, bubble by bubble.
When we miscarried our first time. When David told me he was dying over the phone and then told me he loved me over and over again. When we heard no heartbeat on Valentine’s Day. I was always astonished that the world didn’t stop in time and crumble upon me and everyone else.
How does it go on?
How do I go on?
Why do we go on?
Our first night in this strange, rainy place on the ocean, I was at the brink of sleep when I shot up in bed. It was dark, but I could see the white foaming lines of the ocean through the window, frothing like a chaotic black hole. I looked at it, my heart pounding, my fingers trembling as I held on tight to the bed covers… I stared into the water. A dark mass, chaotic, uncaring about me, my family, my grief. The waves would come again and again.
I blinked and then laid down. I tried to focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. And I realized the last couple of years have felt like I’ve been lost at sea. I’ve been swimming the best I can. I’ve been fighting for air. I’ve been looking for calm shores. And when I curse the ocean, it doesn’t respond. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t help.
It’s the ocean. Beautiful. Devastating. Ruthless.
I’m at mercy with the tides that have no mercy. They have no love, no empathy, no concern. But they also have no hatred. The ocean isn’t evil either.
I fell asleep that first night as I started to wish I was the ocean. Swallowing things up and spitting them out for no reason. Just splashing about endlessly. No desires. No longing. No losing. Just ocean.
Today, there’s no comforting ending to my attempt at writing about my miscarriage. There’s no hope shared. No advice or silver lining.
Today is like the ocean. Today I’m mindlessly crashing against the rocks again and again.
Hope will surely come again back into your life someday. Very sorry to hear you went through a miscarriage, Jade. I hope you guys feel better soon.
Fuck. That's so heavy. There's no sadness like losing a child. I have nothing to offer other than hope that you and your husband can carry on. Take care of yourself.